"Of course," Louis returns, because in what world did Lestat offer anything less than perfection from the stage? In what world would Louis be dissatisfied?
Louis flicks ash from his cigarette, holding Lestat's gaze.
"I been missing it. Your voice."
Years away from New Orleans when Louis would hear him whenever he liked, whenever the mood struck. Years with only an inferior recording locked away, brought out only for Daniel's benefit.
A little coy. He could accuse Louis of deflecting, using flattery to steer him off the subject, but the problem is that it's already working. Lestat touching teeth to cigarette butt, unconscious flirting, as if it were still the 1920s and he'd found all these little subtle ways to make his desires and appreciation known.
But thoughtful, too. He says, "I feel you had not much to say about my singing in the book," and gives a shrug. "Only that one song."
He doesn't hold Louis to an answer, exhales smoke with a soft, dismissive sound. "It was strange reading. Dreamlike, at times. Like you are outside of your own house, and the door won't open. You peer in through the windows, which are fogged, obscured in lace, and you watch someone who looks like you and behaves like you doing all the things you did, with the ones you loved.
"And you would like them to stop," he adds. "Or do it differently. Or they do something else entirely. Of course you can't. Everything is locked inside."
Arresting to catch that familiar bit of work with cigarette and teeth, there and gone and replaced by a shrug of a breath before Lestat says these other things.
Lestat speaks of the book and Louis looks away. Distracts himself for a moment with his cigarette, flicking ash.
Refrains from the first words that come to mind: You were never supposed to see it.
That might sour things, Louis thinks. It might sour the camaraderie between Lestat and Daniel if Louis were to say aloud that he'd changed his mind about publishing at the last moment. It's between Louis and Daniel.
So he casts about for something else. Lands upon: "We make another book. Put new things inside to balance out the bad that came before."
Louis is already awash in enemies. So what if he publishes something else? What more can be incited?
Lestat only realises he is slightly braced for the conversation going awry when it doesn't, and he finds himself pleased. Relieved, despite being the one to nip at the edges of the topic. A stream of smoke leaves him with a mirthful exhale, a smile that shows up at the eyes.
As if readership is the concern, as far as the vampiric world is concerned. As far as this little sentiment, this offering, is concerned.
But what if they start a podcast.
And then, a slight swivel. Picking up on something from within, before he reports, "That is Jeannie. We should go in." Dropping his cigarette already, crushing it beneath boot heel.
Louis lingers anyway, drawing out that last drag off his own cigarette for the pleasure of Lestat's undivided attention.
A moment where Louis wants to demand escort back to their hotel room. There is a mini fridge. They could pour drinks. Talk. Lestat broached the topic of the book apart from the spate of angry vampires seeking Louis' death. They could be done with the close crowding of the bar.
But Louis acquiesces. Stubs out cigarette.
"Lead the way," he agrees, gracious.
No need to overstep, mistake friendliness for something it isn't. They've been having a nice night. They can keep on having one, alongside Jeannie and Mark and Daniel.
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no subject
"Of course," Louis returns, because in what world did Lestat offer anything less than perfection from the stage? In what world would Louis be dissatisfied?
Louis flicks ash from his cigarette, holding Lestat's gaze.
"I been missing it. Your voice."
Years away from New Orleans when Louis would hear him whenever he liked, whenever the mood struck. Years with only an inferior recording locked away, brought out only for Daniel's benefit.
no subject
A little coy. He could accuse Louis of deflecting, using flattery to steer him off the subject, but the problem is that it's already working. Lestat touching teeth to cigarette butt, unconscious flirting, as if it were still the 1920s and he'd found all these little subtle ways to make his desires and appreciation known.
But thoughtful, too. He says, "I feel you had not much to say about my singing in the book," and gives a shrug. "Only that one song."
He doesn't hold Louis to an answer, exhales smoke with a soft, dismissive sound. "It was strange reading. Dreamlike, at times. Like you are outside of your own house, and the door won't open. You peer in through the windows, which are fogged, obscured in lace, and you watch someone who looks like you and behaves like you doing all the things you did, with the ones you loved.
"And you would like them to stop," he adds. "Or do it differently. Or they do something else entirely. Of course you can't. Everything is locked inside."
no subject
Lestat speaks of the book and Louis looks away. Distracts himself for a moment with his cigarette, flicking ash.
Refrains from the first words that come to mind: You were never supposed to see it.
That might sour things, Louis thinks. It might sour the camaraderie between Lestat and Daniel if Louis were to say aloud that he'd changed his mind about publishing at the last moment. It's between Louis and Daniel.
So he casts about for something else. Lands upon: "We make another book. Put new things inside to balance out the bad that came before."
Louis is already awash in enemies. So what if he publishes something else? What more can be incited?
no subject
"Another book," is agreement. And then, "Or another medium altogether. No one reads anymore, chéri."
As if readership is the concern, as far as the vampiric world is concerned. As far as this little sentiment, this offering, is concerned.
But what if they start a podcast.
And then, a slight swivel. Picking up on something from within, before he reports, "That is Jeannie. We should go in." Dropping his cigarette already, crushing it beneath boot heel.
no subject
Louis lingers anyway, drawing out that last drag off his own cigarette for the pleasure of Lestat's undivided attention.
A moment where Louis wants to demand escort back to their hotel room. There is a mini fridge. They could pour drinks. Talk. Lestat broached the topic of the book apart from the spate of angry vampires seeking Louis' death. They could be done with the close crowding of the bar.
But Louis acquiesces. Stubs out cigarette.
"Lead the way," he agrees, gracious.
No need to overstep, mistake friendliness for something it isn't. They've been having a nice night. They can keep on having one, alongside Jeannie and Mark and Daniel.